In three swift strides he crossed the room and grabbed her, a strong arm quickly around her shoulders for support, his body rigid and stiff, a brace. “Hey,” he said softly, his breath warm against the back of her head. “You okay?”
From his rug near the fire, Harley lifted his head and gave off a soft, disturbed “woof.”
“No,” she snapped, her patience dissolving in an instant. She was angry at herself and her damned body and the fact that she was noticing how decidedly male he was. A tiny bit of her mind reminded her it had been a long while since she’d been this close to a man, felt a male touch. “No, I’m not okay with being stuck here in the middle of no-damned-where with a sprained ankle, cracked ribs, bruises up the wazoo. Trapped in a cabin without electricity or phones with a stranger I know nothing, and I mean nothing, about.” From the corner of her eye she noticed Harley starting to rouse. “Not to mention a dog who hates me.”
“I don’t think Harley hates—”
She turned so that she could look him squarely in his flinty eyes. “Oh, and let’s not forget we think there might be a maniac on the loose, one who shot my car and forced me off the road. So, no, I’m not okay. Not even close to anything resembling okay. In fact, I’m definitely not okay at all.”
“All right,” he said, but a flash of amusement registered in his eyes.
“You’re mocking me?”
“What? No.”
“You think it’s funny?”
“Wouldn’t dream of it.” He was dead serious again, all humor erased.
“Good. Then let’s figure out how to get out of here.” She shifted a little, trying to put a bit of space between their bodies.
“I’m working on it.”
“Then work faster, would you?” she said, hearing the sting in her words.
“Doing what I can.”
“Oh hell.” She tried to calm down, but the truth of the matter was that she couldn’t. “Sorry to be such a bitch. I’m sick to my back teeth of lying down and just being cooped up here and playing the poor, injured victim. It is not my style and…Oh, for the love of God,” she said, trying to ignore the fact that his breath was ruffling her hair and she could actually smell the maleness of him. How stupid was that? “It’s…it’s just that I’ve got to do something, no, make that anything, to get out of here!” It was a struggle to ignore how steel-strong his forearm was, or that his scent was surprisingly clean and subtly male. She turned angry eyes up on him, as if it were his fault he was so sexual in a dark, almost frightening, way. “I’m going nuts. Completely loco. I…I have to get out of here! Today!”
One side of his mouth curved in that sexy, disarming smile she didn’t dare trust.
And in that moment she realized just how bad she must look. She hadn’t showered in days, her face was still bruised, though she was lucky that she hadn’t lost any teeth or broken her jaw. Well, lucky was relative, she supposed, but it was really ironic that when she looked her worst she found this stranger so ridiculously attractive. Which was just plain idiotic on her part.
Angry with herself and her female fantasies—fantasies that were certainly running amok—she pushed herself away from him. Once they weren’t touching, all sense of intimacy between them vanished, she balanced on her crutch and tried to pull herself together. She had to stay focused. They both did.
Yawning, Harley climbed to his feet, stretched and trotted over to MacGregor’s side.
“Time to go out?” MacGregor patted the dog’s head, then, with a final look at the ever-lightening landscape through the large window, said, “Come on, then. Out the back.” He snagged his jacket from its hook, then walked to the kitchen, the spaniel trotting eagerly behind him.
Watching as he disappeared through the archway separating the kitchen from the living area, Jillian tamped down her temper. She had woken up on the wrong side of the bed, or, in this case, the couch. It wasn’t his fault that she’d been in the accident.
Not his fault….
Then whose?
She shook her head. No one she knew. If MacGregor were a killer bent on hurting her, he would have done it already. True, there was no reason to restrain her, as she couldn’t walk far on her own, but he hadn’t so much as hurled a harsh word at her or even done anything that suggested he wanted to harm her. He’d left her with a loaded gun, hadn’t he?
She wondered about him, this person who had taken another man’s life. Why had he chosen to live here all alone? Who was the boy in the picture? Did he have a wife? A fiancé? A girlfriend tucked away somewhere? Or was he one of those true loners who didn’t need the companionship of other people, a mountain man?
Sighing, Jillian made her way to the bathroom. A bucket was filled with water, so she was able to use the toilet despite the fact that the pump wasn’t working. Each night, MacGregor filled several buckets with snow and dragged them into the house so that the snow would melt and they would have water to drink and use to cook and wash. Hot water was at a premium, heated in a pot on the woodstove or a kettle nestled in the coals of the fireplace. But with that water he’d cooked everything from instant oatmeal to pre-packaged soup and dehydrated casseroles. He’d even managed to bake cornbread in the oven of the woodstove. It had been burned around the edges, but Jillian had been so hungry, she’d devoured two thick slabs.
Despite their isolation MacGregor had been prepared and they hadn’t gone hungry. But still, the cabin was a long shot from a five-star hotel, or even a one-star hotel, for that matter.
Jillian glanced longingly at the tub shower and imagined how it would feel to have hot water cascading over her sore muscles or streaming through her hair as she shampooed it.
Now that would be pure heaven.
She imagined herself up to her neck in warm, scented water, candles burning, her skin soft with fragrant bath oil. She would close her eyes and…MacGregor would take a cloth and gently bathe her, his fingers grazing her skin, touching her breasts and lower, until her nipples would pucker and her breath would get lost deep in her throat as he worked over her slick skin….
She made a sound of frustration low in her throat.
What was she thinking?
Cabin fever was addling her brain, making her dream of sex with a virtual stranger.
Angry with herself, she hitched back to the kitchen, found a saucepan and dipped a little water from the pot simmering on the stove. Balancing the pan carefully, she returned to the adjoining bathroom, mixed a little cold water from a bucket into the hot water, then, using a cloth, washed her face, hands, then the parts of her body that felt the worst. Her hair would have to wait, though she did run a little water through it, using a bit of soap to work up a small lather, then rinsing it as best she could. A salon shampoo it wasn’t, but she felt better having clean hair. She finger-combed the tangles and found a brush to separate the strands.
“Bitterroot beauty at its finest,” she told her reflection, where bruises still lingered beneath her skin.
Opening the door, she found MacGregor and the dog in the kitchen. He must’ve been there a while, as he was dressed only in his sweater and jeans, his jacket nowhere in sight.
“Someone cleaned up,” he observed.
“About time, don’t you think?”
He nodded. “You look good.”
She